


Muscle, Bone, Marrow

by qwanderer



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Chronic Pain, Gabriel is an ass, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Conditions, Other, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: "Don't give me that," Crowley says, voice tinged with something like desperation. "You're a million miles away. And you're drunk as anything. And I don't like that I don't know why.""We're celebrating!" Aziraphale tells him defiantly. He goes to pick up his glass, but Crowley puts out a hand to stop him.Aziraphale doesn't have the presence of mind to pull back, so, clumsily, he reaches around Crowley's extended forearm and brushes the glass with his fingertips, pushing it over and onto the floor, where it shatters."Oh, for fuck's sake," Aziraphale mutters as the wine soaks its way into the antique carpet.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 211
Collections: Quick Reads





	Muscle, Bone, Marrow

Aziraphale doesn’t remember when he first noticed the pain.

That’s a lie. 

There had been a twinge in his wings when he’d brought them out on the Ark, and contemplated going to find survivors, as Crowley had been doing.

He’d pulled in his wings again, and set aside his thought of defying the Almighty’s plan, and pretended he’d never felt the twinge. He wrapped them all up in thoughts of Falling and stuffed the whole bundle deep down in his subconscious.

-

Flying was how one got around in Heaven, at least in the old days. Aziraphale isn’t certain what’s become normal there now, as every time he visits, the sterile coldness drives him back down to Earth as soon as he can manage.

Every flight on Earth is a risk of being seen, of frightening a human or revealing a truth to them that they are not meant to know.

At first, it was this that kept Aziraphale’s wings tucked out of sight. Or at least, so he tells himself. It isn’t that he’s constantly preoccupied with human things, with physical things like fragrant food and soft clothing and the smell of old books! It’s something else.

An angel isn’t meant to be drawn to those things. Isn’t meant to experience the physical pleasures that lead to sins like greed, envy, gluttony. Lust.

So on the rare occasion that Aziraphale brings out his wings, and pain shoots through the muscles in his shoulders, he puts his wings away again and pretends it isn’t happening.

Pretends he isn’t Falling.

-

When Crowley asks him to run away together, Aziraphale feels a knot form in his belly, made of all the fear of what he could become if he let himself. It whispers,  _ This is what makes you Fall. This is what will drag you down that final inch. _

"I am an angel," he says desperately, like it can shield him from the inevitable.

He knows it's inevitable because he loves Crowley. Because his heart is breaking, watching Crowley walk away.

-

Heaven doesn't care about saving the world.

Aziraphale loves the world and he loves Crowley and maybe that makes him a bad angel but it's the truth and it's time he accepts it.

He goes in search of someone to possess. Maybe angels can't do it. But then again, maybe he's far gone enough to do it anyway.

-

Aziraphale stands with Crowley and the Antichrist at the end of the world. He lets out his wings and he savors the burning pain that results when he stretches them to their full wingspan. These are his people. This is what he fights for. Not angels, but humans, the young Antichrist, and one demon in particular.

He doesn't look back at his feathers, doesn't dare to look at them, in case they've changed.

-

Crowley's voice is so soft when he says, "You don't have a side anymore." The breath freezes solid in Aziraphale's chest, thinking that Crowley must have seen something different about his wings. But then he continues, "Neither of us do." And the weight lifts a little. "We're on our own side."

It doesn't matter whether he Falls. He has Crowley.

A few minutes later, as the bus rumbles beneath them, Aziraphale brings up the prophecy. When Crowley suggests the switch, first there's terror. But if Crowley is suggesting it, then Aziraphale's wings must still have been white, when he brought them out in that place beyond time. And if one of them is going to face holy water, then obviously it must be Aziraphale.

He would spare Crowley that excruciating death, even if it means facing the same fate himself.

He hopes he still has enough grace left in him to survive the holy water. It's at the moment before they toss him in the tub that it occurs to him that Crowley might have Risen, and that they may both be about to die. The water is shockingly cold, and it burns with an icy sting for a moment, but then Aziraphale is shivering and alive and remembering that Crowley has been just as kind and good since the very first time they met. 

He grins wickedly at the demons of hell.

-

After the Ritz, they go back to the bookshop. Aziraphale is half drunk already, and he plans on becoming more so. Crowley has begun to look at him with a touch of concern. 

He's not running from his fate anymore. But he wonders how much it will hurt. How bad it will be. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley says. 

Aziraphale thinks Crowley may have been trying to get his attention for a bit, now, from his frown.

Crowley's hand kind of… hovers, close to Aziraphale but not touching him. "Aziraphale," he says again, and it sounds like he's being very careful about something.

Aziraphale makes a vaguely curious noise.

"Where is your head at?" Crowley asks.

"On my shoulders," Aziraphale quips, "one might hope."

"Don't give me that," Crowley says, voice tinged with something like desperation. "You're a million miles away. And you're drunk as anything. And I don't like that I don't know why."

"We're celebrating!" Aziraphale tells him defiantly. He goes to pick up his glass, but Crowley puts out a hand to stop him.

Aziraphale doesn't have the presence of mind to pull back, so, clumsily, he reaches around Crowley's extended forearm and brushes the glass with his fingertips, pushing it over and onto the floor, where it shatters.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Aziraphale mutters as the wine soaks its way into the antique carpet. 

Slowly, Crowley pulls his sunglasses off of his face and stares at Aziraphale with slightly widened eyes.

"What?" Aziraphale asks.

"You can tell me," Crowley says, "if there's something wrong."

"Wh- " Aziraphale stumbles. "There's nothing- Why would anything be wrong?"

"Aziraphale-"

"The world didn't end, and you survived the hellfire, and I-" His breath hitches. "I survived the holy water."

Crowley is crouching down in front of Aziraphale where he's sitting on the sofa. Aziraphale isn't sure when he'd gotten so close. He takes Aziraphale's wrist gently in his fingers. "Angel. Why are you saying that like you expected not to?"

The word "angel" breaks his resolve.

"I think I'm falling," the words tumble out of him, "but I don't care. Heaven can get stuffed."

He looks straight back at Crowley, who looks as if he has just been punched in the solar plexus. Crowley's hands are shaking, one still looped loosely around Aziraphale's wrist and the other outstretched halfway to Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale supposes that since this is definitely happening now, he should probably be sober for it, and puts all the wine back where it came from. Which will at least get the majority of it out of the rug, as well.

Crowley doesn't look at all reassured.

Aziraphale tries to smile. "It's not so bad, you said. When you get used to it."

"Fuck, Aziraphale. I didn't mean…"

"I know," Aziraphale assures him. "But this has been a long time coming, I think. And the idea isn't so bad, now that I've gotten used to it."

"No, no no no no no no," Crowley says, hands fluttering uselessly. "You're wrong, you have to be wrong, you  _ can't _ Fall."

"My wings hurt," Aziraphale admits. "They have for some time now."

Crowley looks as if he is in agony, and sniffs wetly before he can speak again.

"All right," he says, tone changing somehow, so that it feels natural to let him take control of the situation, "let me see them."

Aziraphale takes a breath and lets it out, and at the same time he pulls out his wings. It feels more like falling than anything else has. Like little Warlock, so helpless and human, falling with relief into his nanny's arms.

_ Oh, _ they burn.

Crowley's eyes look them over with thorough care. His voice, when he speaks, is so soft that at first Aziraphale doesn't actually register that what he says is "You're not falling."

"What?" he asks, still not sure if he heard properly.

"I don't see any sign that you're falling. And I would. They'd look different." Crowley shakes his head. "There's no one way to fall. But they'd look different somehow. And they don't. They look just as they did when I met you on the wall."

Aziraphale blinks at him for a moment, before saying stupidly, "But they hurt."

"Where?" Crowley asks. "The skin, the feather roots? The limbs, or the shoulders?"

Aziraphale stretches his wings out just a bit, experimentally, testing the feel of it. He winces, and lets them fall back to a resting position. 

"The muscles," he answers. "When I move them."

He's known he was falling for so many years now. Crowley obviously needs time to adjust to the idea, as well.

Crowley is hovering behind him, now, his voice hushed but steady as he asks, "When did it start?"

"Well," Aziraphale begins, "I'm not completely certain…"

"When?" Crowley asks again, tone soft but clearly not willing to let his lie pass. 

Aziraphale's throat is dry as he says, "The ark."

"You could have said," Crowley mutters then, the hint of Crowley's usual attitude making Aziraphale feel a little less like his friend is grieving him, here and now. "Could've told me. Any time between then and now."

"That I thought I was falling?" Aziraphale says, voice cracking. "I didn't want you to think it was anything you did."

"You're not falling," Crowley repeats firmly.

"You can't actually know that," Aziraphale argues. "I could simply be falling differently than most."

Crowley's response to that is to scoff, and Aziraphale isn't sure how he feels about that. 

"And, well," Aziraphale says, his tone bleaker than he intends, "what else could it be?"

"Any number of things," Crowley answers immediately. "Any half-decent healer could have told you that. Didn't you see anyone about this?"

"If there was anything worse than the thought of you knowing," Aziraphale admits, "it was the thought of  _ them _ knowing. Upstairs."

At that, Crowley gives a long, deep sigh. 

"They've been hurting since the ark," he recaps, "and you haven't asked anyone for help." He circles around to face Aziraphale again, his face unreadable. "Well, at a glance, I can't see anything wrong with them, except they look a bit stiff. How are they when you fly?"

Aziraphale bites his lip. "I wouldn't know," he tells Crowley. "I haven't dared."

Crowley's yellow eyes go wide and startled. "Not since the ark?"

"Not since Eden," Aziraphale admits. "Except the once. But I was reprimanded."

"For  _ flying?" _ Crowley sounds outraged. 

"For flying on Earth," Aziraphale says. "Where the humans could see me, when I didn't have a specific assignment that required appearing to them. Flying for the pleasure of it, to feel the air through my feathers. I was reprimanded for  _ indulging." _

His wings flutter at the memory of that feeling before he can stop them, feathers brushing the back of the sofa, and he winces at the fiery feeling that runs through them. They feel pulled tight, as if they're made of hot little threads that get shorter and shorter. 

"Oh, angel," Crowley says. "And you never went Upstairs to stretch your wings?"

"Well, not after  _ that," _ Aziraphale says. "I'd know what they were all thinking of me. Besides, it's not the same. There's no wind up there, you know. The air is always perfectly still." He frowns, thinking of it. "Do you know, when Gabriel is on Earth, he likes to go jogging? Just running, in a straight line? Can you imagine what  _ flying _ with him would be like?"

"No, right, of course," Crowley mutters. "Bloody gits." He looks up briefly. "Heaven used to have some character, but I guess that's been done with for a long time."

"All Fallen out, I'm afraid," Aziraphale says, almost cheerfully. 

"Hm. All but you," Crowley corrects.

"Are you certain?" Aziraphale asks carefully. "Because I've just been reminded of all the reasons I don't particularly care to return to Heaven."

"Pretty sure," Crowley says, stepping more closely. "Fact is, I think I know what's gone wrong. Wings aren't meant to be shut away, angel. They're meant to be used."

"Oh," says Aziraphale. "What… happens to them if they aren't?"

"Oh, all kinds of things," Crowley says, putting his knuckles to his mouth as he thinks. "They can get stiff if you don't move them, of course. They don't quite have nerves that can get pinched or what have you, like purely physical wings would, but the flow of energy can get interrupted and start burning them. I suppose they could even atrophy, in their own way."

Aziraphale is afraid to even think about this being something other than Falling, in case it turns out to be false hope. He closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment. He feels the burning in his wings, tries to imagine what it might be like to know for certain why it's happening.

There have been moments, when the pain was at its worst, when Aziraphale almost hoped to fall, to have it over and done with. The suspense was too much.

It had become more a question of  _ when _ he would fall, rather than  _ if.  _

He takes another breath, and opens his eyes to Crowley, golden eyes full of concern.

"How might we find out? If that is what's gone wrong."

"I'd, uh." Crowley flounders for a moment. "I'd need to examine them. It's probably going to hurt. More than it does, I mean." Crowley's face screws up in frustration. "But if I'm right, it's the only way to help." He holds out his hands, offering them up. "Will you let me?"

The thought of Crowley's hands on his wings makes Aziraphale feel a number of things at once. He wants to flinch away. Every touch to his wings equals pain. But at the same time, he wants to lean into that pain. Maybe the touch of a demon will finally bring things to a head. Maybe he'll Fall.

Maybe he won't. Perhaps Crowley's hands will find what they're looking for. Damage more physical than spiritual.

Either way, Aziraphale finds he has to know.

"Please," Aziraphale says tightly, and braces himself. 

"Okay, all right," says Crowley, sounding suddenly a bit nervous. "Let me know if you need me to stop."

Crowley reaches first for the back of Aziraphale's neck, putting gentle pressure on the muscles of his corporation there. It's a soft feeling, it doesn't burn. Aziraphale leans into it, and finds himself wishing to feel this again, under different circumstances.

"That all right?" Crowley asks.

Aziraphale murmurs some kind of agreement, caught up in the feeling of Crowley's fingers on his skin. 

Crowley leans in closer, putting one knee on the sofa beside Aziraphale, so he can rub Aziraphale's back, between his wings. Aziraphale gasps sharply, but the feeling is more startling than painful. The muscles there are not used to feeling anything except the tight fiery pain that results from moving his wings, and now Crowley's fingers are rubbing up and down with careful strokes, moving with unspeakable gentleness. The soft ache that results is not entirely unpleasant.

"All right?" Crowley asks again.

"Oh, yes, my dear," Aziraphale breathes. "That feels… well, a bit lovely. And a bit not."

Crowley hums thoughtfully, not sounding at all surprised.

"Do you really think," Aziraphale asks hesitantly, "that this is some physical ailment, and nothing to do with F- with Falling?" He stumbles a bit over the words, emotions muddled. 

"Yes," Crowley answers simply. "That's exactly what I think."

Aziraphale doesn't dare believe him, not yet. So he stays silent.

Crowley's hands move to the shoulder joints of his wings, gently prodding the muscles there before moving to the length of each humerus. Every now and again, he asks how it feels, how much it hurts, whether it's an ache or a burning or something sharper. He asks Aziraphale to stretch each wing out as far as he can, making gentle encouraging noises as the burning stretch goes to its limits.

Aziraphale is so involved in the sensations of Crowley gently manipulating his wings that he's surprised to find himself out of breath the next time he goes to answer one of Crowley's questions. Crowley might even notice before he does, because his hands are suddenly still and he's looking closely at Aziraphale's face.

"If this is too much," Crowley says hesitantly, "we can stop."

"Just a moment," Aziraphale says between breaths. Technically he doesn't need to breathe, but his body tends to do it anyway, especially when that body is made to work harder than usual.

This doesn't seem like it should be so much work, just a few slow motions, stretching out and up, down and in, with the guidance of Crowley's careful fingers. It's nothing compared to what he did when he flew with these same wings, so long ago. But apparently it is something significant, now.

"We can stop for now," Crowley says, "if you need to. This can't all happen at once, it's going to take time."

Aziraphale chews his lip as he ponders this. "You really believe that this is helping?" he asks. "That this is something that  _ can _ be helped?"

Crowley considers for a moment, looking over the fluffy white expanse of Aziraphale's wings. "Yes," he says finally, "I'm fairly certain."

"Then I would like to continue," Aziraphale says. 

"Right," says Crowley. He frowns. "I'm going to put more pressure on your flight muscles, so just yell if it's really awful." He waits for Aziraphale to agree before he slides his fingers in between Aziraphale's marginal coverts and begins to massage the muscles beneath. 

Aziraphale's breath stutters, and then he makes a high, surprised noise. 

"That hurt a lot?" Crowley asks with concern.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathes. "Don't stop."

Crowley wrinkles his nose. "Mnh," he says, "I wish…" but he doesn't continue the thought. Instead he says, "well, keep talking, tell me how things feel."

"Do you remember being made?" Aziraphale asks, not quite present enough in the conversation to censor himself, as he might usually do, from discussing Things Before with the demon. "I don't, not really, but humans seem to find the process somewhat distressing. Being squeezed. Shaped, molded. Brought into the world."

"Only remember the second time," Crowley answers, almost too quietly to hear. His hands shift, and the pressure continues, moving to another stretch of excruciatingly tender muscle. 

"Feel like you're making me," Aziraphale says. "Rebuilding me."

"I'm not, though," Crowley says. "Just helping your wings remember how to be wings."

He says it like it's simple fact. 

Crowley's fingers press into every inch of muscle in his wings, methodically. Patiently. After that, he guides Aziraphale through one more round of stretching, neatening his feathers as they go. 

"Do they feel any better?" he asks at last.

"Yes, very much so," Aziraphale says enthusiastically. The stretches were much easier this time. He hesitates before adding, "There's still quite a bit of pain."

"Well, there's a limit to what I can do at first," Crowley says, not looking happy about it. "They're part of you, not just your corporation, so they will need time to heal, not just miracles. They'll need to be stretched regularly and built back up."

"Do you really think that that will work?" Aziraphale asks. "That the problem is something so simple to set right?"

Crowley catches Aziraphale's eye and says earnestly, "Angel. I would go so far as to say that I  _ know." _

Aziraphale wants to laugh at how silly he's been, at how much fear he's felt for no reason at all. Instead he finds himself sobbing, suddenly and rather violently.

The next thing he knows, he's been enfolded in Crowley's arms, Crowley is making soft shushing noises and rubbing his shoulders soothingly. 

He feels like he's a reservoir with a crumbling dam, all the terror and worry and tension all flowing out with a monstrous force. He can't stop it, nor would he want to. Aziraphale is done with being shut up, with not moving outside of the constraints Heaven has put on him. He clings to Crowley, his best friend in all of creation, the most lovely being he has ever met in any realm, Above, Below, or here on Earth. 

Crowley is whispering sweet comforting meaningless things, and rocking almost imperceptibly. 

"You are so perfectly good to me," Aziraphale says as soon as he has command of his voice again.

"Mnh," Crowley objects, falling quiet and still, but he holds Aziraphale in his arms just as tightly.

"You knew just what to do," Aziraphale continues, undaunted. "Where did you learn all of this?"

"I was a healer," Crowley murmurs almost apologetically. "You know. Before."

Oh. Of course.

"Well," says Aziraphale. "I’d say you still are."

"Nnnn," Crowley waves away the sentiment. Dismissing it, although he clearly longs for it to be true, now that Aziraphale is paying proper attention. Now that Aziraphale is wrapped in Crowley's arms, faces leaned in close together.

Aziraphale remembers Crowley on the ark, miracling the water out of the lungs of a girl who'd nearly drowned, and rubbing her back gently afterwards. 

Aziraphale remembers Crowley taking part in their Arrangement with enthusiasm, recounting the caring and positive miracles he'd done so that they could go in Aziraphale's reports.

Aziraphale remembers Crowley with Warlock, whenever the boy was sad or frightened or hurting. The way the touch of a gentle hand or a softly hummed tune always seemed to calm him.

Aziraphale remembers a hidden room he'd found, poking around Crowley's flat when they were reversed, full of plants that were suffering from various maladies that weren't even pretending to be afraid. It looked as if they were being nursed back to health.

He feels a bit ashamed that it's taken him so long to bring all this into focus.

"It shouldn't have been so important to me whether I was going to keep being an angel," he says ruefully.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, wide-eyed. But Aziraphale keeps talking, not letting Crowley interrupt.

"Because it's not what we are that matters. It's what we do. And you, my dearest, you heal."

Crowley opens and closes his mouth wordlessly for a moment. He looks like he might be about to cry as well. 

Aziraphale cannot help but kiss him. 

It's not a long kiss, but there is so much in it, volumes and volumes of words that had gone unspoken for too long. And when they break apart, they cannot look away from each other. 

Crowley makes a pained noise.

"Was that too much?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yes," Crowley croaks. "Don't stop."

Aziraphale can't help but laugh, for sheer joy, and then Crowley is laughing too, and they fall into each other in fits of helpless giggles. Aziraphale snuggles closer, feeling the exhaustion of the day like a heavy, comforting blanket. 

They are both going to be all right, with time and rest and a little care. 


End file.
